Several Times
by cjnwriter
Summary: "Several times during the last three years I have taken up my pen to write to you..." Basically three one-shots describing a couple of these times.


**A/N: This is my first-ever fanficion, so obviously it's not going to be perfect. Please bear with me.**

**Reviews are appreciated, and constructive criticism is always greatly appreciated.**

**This was largely inspired by Apology by ArgentNoelle****. Definitely go check that out.**

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_ Several times during the last three years I have taken up my pen to write to you..." Sherlock Holmes, "The Adventure of the Empty House"_

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After dipping his pen into the ink, Holmes sat motionless for a moment and frowned. What could he possibly say to his friend, who believed that he had died at the Reichenbach Falls? An entire month had gone by; how was he supposed to justify that? Part of Holmes said that keeping Watson ignorant would not only save his own skin, but keep Moran and the others from going after Watson. The other part said that he was formulating excuses because he was worried about what Watson would think of him. What kind of man allows his only friend to believe him to be dead? He had done something similar in the Culverton Smith case back in '89, but for a day, not an entire month!

Holmes lowered the pen to the paper. _My dear Watson_, he began. For a moment, Holmes stared down at that name, a name that meant more to him an he would ever admit to anyone, including the man himself. How could six simple letters hold so much life and meaning in them and not look any more important or extraordinary? Dipping the pen in the ink again, Holmes continued. _I hope you are well—_with a fluid and vehement motion, he slashed a line through those words. Of course Watson wasn't _well!_ He'd seen Watson at the falls. That was the first—and only—time Holmes had ever seen him cry. He hadn't meant to hurt Watson! Of course, he knew his Watson well enough to know he had a tender heart, but he really didn't know it would affect him so much! Or maybe he did, and just didn't care enough to try to write _something_ consoling or reassuring in that impersonal note he had left with his silver cigarette case.

Shoving the notion firmly into the darkest corner of his great mind, Holmes attempted to continue. He sat for five full minutes, composing the letter in his mind, but he could think of nothing to say that was not too light hearted or sounded like some of the romantic drivel his Watson was so fond of writing. Finally, with a gesture of disgust, he crumpled up the paper, and threw it into the fireplace.

* * *

Nearly a year and a half later, Holmes began to feel a nagging sense that he was missing something, and he had already determined it had nothing to do with the little mystery concerning the disappearance of his neighbor's cufflinks. It was definitely something else. Something important.

Watson.

Yes, he remembered now. Holmes had promised himself that he would write to Watson, now that Moran was the only (important) member of Moriarty's criminal agency still walking free, and he was safely out of the way for a few days, at least.

Grabbing a pen and paper, he sat down to his task, the most difficult one in months, regardless of how impressive his solution to that little question given to "Sigerson" was in the eyes of various European governments. _Dear Watson_, he began._ I am sure you will be very pleased and pleasantly surprised to learn that I, Sherlock Holmes, am not dead, as the world now believes. I am currently residing Tibet, but I hope to return to London as soon as I manage to rid the world of the last of the late Professor Moriarty's inner circle. I am not willing to disclose the name of this man, as it would put you at a considerable, and quite unnecessary, risk._

Holmes stopped, and crossed off the last sentence. If he was going to write to his friend at all, he needed to be completely honest with him. Hints would only arouse Watson's curiosity; Holmes knew him well enough to be sure of that. Not to mention that after nearly nineteen months of silence, Watson deserved at least that much. _This man's name is Colonel Sebastian Moran, to all outward appearance a respectable retired military man. He has a section in one of my scrapbooks in Baker Street, should you wish to know any more about him._

Now came the hard part: explaining why he hadn't confided in Watson sooner. He needed _some_ excuse, at least. Holmes considered the argument that it was too dangerous before, and this was the first chance he had. But this was an outright lie. Sure, it was safer now than it was the night after Reichenbach, but only because one of Moriarty's chief henchmen was now behind bars in France, and the other rotting in his grave. And there had been countless opportunities to write to Watson before this moment, all of which he had either ignored or on one occasion, given up on.

But it was possible he was right. Maybe it really _was_ too dangerous for Watson to know, not to mention that the letter could easily be intercepted by one of Moran's men and be traced back to him before it even reached Watson. However, Holmes was confident enough that Moran knew nothing of his current whereabouts to have already sent a few telegrams to Mycroft requesting news related to Moran.

Even so, Holmes managed to convince himself that it would be far to dangerous for Watson (and himself) to send such a letter. He stood up, and after dropping the paper into the fireplace, he watched as the flames greedily consumed his second attempt at writing to his only friend.

* * *

Over a year later, Holmes managed, through his brother, to gain access to a large stack of London newspapers. He experienced a disconcerting sense of nostalgia as he looked down the agony column of one of them, which was followed by an overwhelming. . .was it homesickness? It had been too long. He only wanted to capture (or kill, he didn't really care which, as long as the latter didn't get him on the wrong side of the law) Moran so he could go home and eat some good English food and solve pretty little problems with his friend.

No, he wouldn't let his thoughts drift toward Watson. Every time they did, he would invariably remember, in agonizing detail, the look of pain and sorrow on his friend's expressive face that day at the falls of Reichenbach, and wonder if he had been wrong. In Holmes's well-ordered and detailed mind, there was almost nothing worse than being wrong. After all, if he never guessed, he could never be wrong, right? At least not logically wrong. In matters of the heart, he only understood what triggered certain emotions and what outcomes they caused, but he avoided at all costs the emotions themselves. Watson was his expert in that area; if Holmes was the brain, his Boswell was the heart. But he had left his only friend alone at the falls. What if he could have done something to save Watson some of the grief and guilt? What if he should have—

Ugh! He furiously grabbed a the next paper in his stack, and flipped it to a random page. He would not let his thoughts dwell on such things if he could help it. Goodness knows, he had nocturnally relived those moments at the Falls enough to last him through the day. Most of these nightmares had various changes, most of which included the most dangerous criminal of the century murdering the best and the wisest man whom he had ever known.

Suddenly, the name of the man who had been constantly plaguing his thoughts since he had read his version of the events leading up to and at the Reichenbach falls in the Strand jumped out at him on the page of the newspaper. His blood ran cold when he realized it was an obituary for his friend's wife. He couldn't bring himself to read any more than just that name.

Closing his eyes, he put his face into his hands. He should not be feeling such strong emotions; he was a brain with out a heart, as his friend had so candidly phrased it. Holmes had never hated or been jealous of Mary Watson; there was only a deep sense of loss, and a disappointment stronger than he could have anticipated. He wouldn't be able to drag Watson off to solve cases at a moment's notice, if his friend became a married man. But now even that disappointment seemed extremely callous and hard-hearted toward his friend, who was now completely alone in the world.

Mary's presence was one of the factors that had helped Holmes convince himself that what he had done at the falls was, if not wholly acceptable, at least less cruel than it could have been. He knew Watson's wife would be able to take care of him; she always had. Watson loved Mary deeply, that much he knew even if he didn't come close to understanding it, and it wasn't going to be easy for him to go on after two such losses in that small amount of time.

Sighing, he lifted up his head, and resting his chin in his hand, he stared at the relatively blank wall opposite him.

He knew he had to do something. Holmes grabbed a pen and paper, and—

No, a letter wasn't going to be good enough anymore. He had to go back to London. To Watson. But first he had to get Moran. And before that, Moran had to make a mistake.

For Holmes, it couldn't happen quickly enough.

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**A/N: Thank you to everyone who reads this, and even more thanks to anyone who reviews :)**


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